Weave
by Poetic Pixie
Summary: Life, and love, don't stop when you aren’t a part of it. But how they blossom when you can join in again.


**Wet**

There are bruises all over her; she had never noticed them before, her mind too preoccupied with other more important things to worry over them. But now she seems to have nothing but time, and she wonders if the slight soreness that she gets from them was always there. One small dot of pain outnumbered by the larger bits that started in the marrow of her bones, and spread up and out into the last inch of her flesh, sinking under her fingernails and eyelashes.

Some are faded, some are so new they almost shine, bruised fruit against her sallow skin. They are all over her, her legs and arms, her torso and even one on her head. She can see them through the bath water, clear and cool against the tenderness that sits in the surface of her skin. She has to lower herself into the bath, trembling as bit by bit she becomes more submerged; her skin hot with anticipation, seemingly sucking the warmth from the water so that when she's finally in, the coolness of it seems like blessed relief.

Her bones ache, her head too heavy for her neck. She hasn't healed yet, and only God and V know how long it's been since she's last had a proper bath, only those two forces of nature knowing the number you would get when you add up all her days and nights. Time spent with nothing but her rat and her cell and her letter. The rain had washed away whatever bit of her fear and old self had remained. It had made her pure in the most complete sense of the word. But her physical self left something to be desired.

She hadn't realized how _filthy_ she was, her cell and her rat and everything else had always spun together, turning the entire universe into a monochrome grey, a colour that's seeped into her skin without her even realizing it. She feels as if something in her has faded away, like her favourite set of sheets, worn and discoloured with constant use. She fills the tub twice before she feels clean again, the third time just lying in it, no amount of torture could make her completely forget the calm she used to feel surrounded by a still pool of streaming water.

She smells of roses, her soap still foaming pink in its dish. She had been surprised to find it, to find all sorts of small luxuries tucked away in places all over, like the Easter eggs she used to collect in the garden before the War. Girly things that she had briefly wished for when she was first imprisoned in the Shadow Gallery. First thinking it absurd that she would want to look presentable for her captor, then thinking it absurd to think otherwise.

He had gotten her silk, something so rare that she doesn't touch it for fear that she'll stain it. Her bed is littered with books that he knows she likes, beautiful mirrors, and works of art. In the bathroom she finds boxes of soaps, and lotions, all different scents and made of all different things. As if he wants to tell her something that all his eloquence can't quite say.

She found the rose soap at the back, a last minute afterthought that makes her close her eyes and think of love, and Shakespeare. Freedom has made her numb, all but for the soft corner in her mind that is still the old Evey. The girl that had been, first and foremost, just that. A girl.

She used his soap to scrub every last inch of her, laughing at the shampoo that she finds. The sound startles her, the surprise causing her to laugh again. She closes her eyes and leans as far back on the rim of the bathtub as her tension will allow; she sits up quickly if the water touches the top of her neck, the ghost of soft leather gloves marking some flaw in her freedom.

She marvels that it's possible not to fear death, and hellfire while managing to quake at a pool of water.

She ducks her head under the water, keeps it under long enough for it to get thoroughly wet. She surfaces with a gasp, her shaved head not weighed down and her eyes blinking away her temporary blindness.

The world is full of light.

She steps out of the tub, her body dripping puddles onto the ground. There's a mirror on the back of the door, she can't help but see herself. Her bruises and welts, her cuts and scars, sores and bony limbs. She barely looks like a woman, her breasts and hips gone. She touches her hurts, each individual strike that he put on her with calm calculation.

She wonders what he felt while he was torturing her, if he felt anything at all. If when he hit her he was remorseful or methodical. She isn't sure if she cares what he thought, or if it's just curiosity.

She isn't sure she wants the answer to any of her questions.

**Warm **

Her freedom from all things had passed four days ago. She is surprised at how easily she adapts to him taking care of her again. But it's different, she does more than she used to, he does as much as he can while at the same time doing the bare minimum. She walks around the Shadow Gallery constantly, knowing that the doors are no longer locked, but not gathering the strength to open them.

She hates him.

He loves her.

He said it, while she was sobbing at his treachery and thinking of a million different ways to hurt him. Trying to think of a million other reasons why he had done it. She had hated him, more completely than she'd hated anyone else. And he loved her all the while. Her world grew and shrank with the knowledge. He had hurt her, taunted her, almost killed her. And he loved her. Had done it for her.

Evey knew how often he had been with her in her cell, how much time he'd spent with her on a day-to-day basis. She compares that to how often he had been home (so quickly has the Shadow Gallery become home) before she'd run away. He had spent hours with her in her 'prison', and while it couldn't be called quality time for obvious reasons (pain did bring people closer together, but usually not in the most positive of ways) he still could have used that time, needed that time, to plan his revolution.

She suddenly remembers them on the roof, she had been naked and wet like a baby, had been just as raw. Her heart had overflowed and she can't remember how long she had stood there, but her body was tired and told her to rest. He had heard it clearer than she had, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and bringing her inside with a gentleness that seemed foreign. His fingers loosely wrapped around hers, as if giving her a chance to let go and run away (again).

She didn't.

He had made her sit down and eat, or rather drink, something; hot chocolate warm, and rich, and filling every last inch of her. He had sat in front of her, quiet even though his very presence filled her head with static as loud as the thunder that had washed her clean only ten minutes ago. He had looked at her with such tender intensity that she felt as if in that one moment her whole being had melted, she was floating and everything that had happened didn't matter because he was sorry that there was nothing else he could have done.

She hates him.

He loves her.

She loves him enough to forgive him.

**Worn **

Her skin stretches over her bones, like a tattered canvas. She's so thin, her flesh only growing back slowly, as if her body isn't fully sure that this new world of proper nutrition will last.

She can't eat anything solid; her stomach mirrors her body and can only hold in things that are insubstantial and unimportant. Self-preservation is largely involuntary. She always 'eats' alone, he makes her something tasty enough given the medium and will wait while she finishes, talking with her and making her smile. He eats his own meals alone, as if the sight of real food will drive her into a frenzy.

She can't sleep on her soft bed, sweating under the confines of her blanket, shivering horribly without it. She tries to sleep on the floor, on benches, curled up in wooden chairs. None of it helps. She had once even gone back to her cell, if only for half an hour of slumber. A mix of claustrophobia and pride had forced her to leave in two minutes.

But it comes, usually at unexpected times and always with V. He'll be reading to her, watching something with her, he'll have simply just walked into the room. It isn't that she seeks safety, she just wants some kind of human contact, even if he is three feet away. In his own kind of prison, hidden behind a smiling mask, pale as death. Blushing like a virgin.

**Want **

Valerie had taught her that there was one thing, one small, immeasurable piece of you, that could not be taken no matter how much force was used, something that, in the end, truly could not be bought or sold. Only given freely. Evey had kept hold of it, close to her heart, buried under fear and rage. But she knows, has always known, that there is something else, something that had never happened. That fact had let her believe in god in her cell, let her believe that there was still one shred of hope with her.

"Why didn't you rape me?" It's almost accusatory; everyone knows what happens when the government catches you. He had rescued her from it when they had met. Why hadn't he done it? It would have made the charade of prison complete. They had threatened too, her jailors' (jailor's) hands had lingered over her breasts and hips at times as they (he) moved her to and from her cell. But they (he) had never done it. She couldn't understand what had held him back. Was it because he loved her? But love was entangled with lust, lust almost defined romantic love.

She has an irrational fear that he had found her repulsive in that cell, that he had looked at her pleading eyes every day and had been disgusted at what he had seen. Of course he had been appalled, she had been no better than the rat (her rat). She had cowered in front of him, begged for her life and freedom, said things in her half-crazed state that, in remembering them now, made her feel sickened at herself. She thanked god that he hadn't done it, asked god why he hadn't.

She is scared that he even now remembers, didn't see her as she is now but rather as she was then.

Her freedom isn't even complete she thinks, she would die for him, could stand her body on the rack and not let a single secret leave her lips.

But she could only find the courage to ask him a simple question when she was grumpy from lack of sleep and proper food. From the loveliness of Shakespeare being momentarily lost on her. From him leaving her again to finish his mission, his (one) goal in life.

He turns, looks at her with his eyes that aren't there. His muscles tense in a ripple of black. Everything is concentrated into this and his words, quick, biting and filled with the honesty that has been in every word he has spoken to her since her freedom.

"I couldn't complete my betrayal by doing it. It would have made me even less of a man than I am now." He sweeps out of the room, always quick with the melodrama.

The next morning she makes him breakfast and waits with him as he eats, obligation keeps him there. She talks to him, can hear him smile at her words (involuntary at first but his awkwardness leaves soon enough). She purposely lets her hands brush against his as she clears the table, a small tremor travels up his arm and she wonders how much he can feel through his clothes.

The thought makes her throat dry.

Spurned by this idea she suddenly suggests a new use for her blindfold, surprised at her own forwardness. He doesn't answer, leaving the room in one big hurry. Doesn't thank her for breakfast as he leaves.

She tricks him into saying yes a week later, doesn't give him much of a choice in the matter. For all his talk of ideas and philosophies she finds that he is just as much of a man as any other.

**Wish **

Recuperation takes a long time, she spends much of this time reading, and watching TV that makes her laugh at the absolute absurdity of the characters and their stereotypes.

She spends a lot of time thinking, dreaming. Longing. Hoping.

She tries to imagine what his face would look like, the colour and texture of his skin, his eyes, his mouth. Before the fire, after the fire. She laughs at their odd semblance of intimacy, he seemingly knowing everything about her, and the most hidden planes of her body. She, however, could only explore him through sound, and touch, and taste. Only letting her eyes stay open when the room is dark, outlines and silhouettes the closest she will ever get to knowing his shape and his face, beautiful under his mask.

But if this is the only way she can have him she will take him like this. Because she needs him to be real, to be more than the masked vigilante, a possessed man with a deadly vendetta.

And he is more, so very much more. She feels as if her healed body will break again with the weight of it.

**Wax **

Everywhere there are candles, all sorts that flicker uncertainly, ghosts dance along the walls and she can't believe he's done this for her.

"Happy birthday Evey."

He knows (she shouldn't be surprised, he seems to know everything). They dance against the iridescent lights and he pulls her close, almost possessively. The thought of him being possessive, as if there would ever be someone to steal her away, it makes her blush and she lays her head against his chest to cover it (it will always be him, just him). She tucks her head under his chin, delights at the feel of warm skin instead of cool porcelain. Can hear his heart, loud and fast.

They blow out the candles, and she shivers at the feel of cloth giving way to flesh.

**Woo **

He courts her like a teenaged boy with a crush. She finds roses everywhere, long stemmed, in full-bloom and blood red. Always on her pillow if he has to leave before she wakes. Bits of poetry replace her bookmarks, and songs flutter through the air.

Words flow from his lips to her ears, soft and musical they're hot whispers against her neck. He talks about beauty, wit, intelligence and perfection. He talks about love though he never says he loves her (only once, only when they were on top of the world). She falls asleep with that memory in her head.

He falls asleep with her in his arms.

**Whole **

Evey used to draw in her classes, getting in trouble for sketching in her margins instead of writing notes. She hadn't been that bad at it either, but things like war had made things like doodles unimportant.

She draws now, hungrily looking at the art all around her, reading the books that V always finds for her. Pulling them from behind his back, flourishing them like a magician, she can always feel his grin under his mask.

She draws simple things first, scribbling out random bits to pass the time. Then he had seen them, told her how nice they were, encouraged her to continue. And she has, she draws what she imagines Africa had looked like, the landscapes and architecture of what the world that once was. When she's brave enough she picks up her colours, her people have rich skin tones, their facial structure slightly varied but all are beautiful. A world with variations, with vibrancy. Freedom and life.

She tries to draw him, to draw V from memory and every sense but the most essential. She starts over and over, destroys her attempts and they are the one thing she keeps from him. Every girl has to have a secret and hers isn't so bad as far as secrets go. For all his cunning and intelligence he's too busy to notice. To ask her why even though her supply of pencils and ink diminish there is never a finished product.

She too is busy, playing part housewife, part conspirator, as the fifth approaches there is only time for a few stolen moments, enough time to fill out a section or draw a quick outline. He is her favourite subject matter and the lack of any kind of vanity makes her want to show him how beautiful he is.

Slowly she settles on a silhouette, translates what she feels underneath her fingers at night onto the paper. He is always in shadow, never in the same pose but always looking right at the viewer, telling her something she keeps hidden away.

And then she works on one piece more than the others, neatens it up, defines her lines and makes him complete. She knows that the experiments made him stronger, didn't alter him in anyway though he once claimed the pain had twisted him, made him less than anything human.

She doesn't believe that love will cure all, that it can mend everything it touches. But no man is an island and V more so. She is his friend, lover, confidante. And he is hers. They live in their island of two, working to liberate the world while never really touching it unless necessary. V knows his place in that world, the large one that loves him and waits for him to free them. But to her he is modest, unassuming. He believes that if there is a god he is only here to fulfill one purpose. It breaks her heart for him to think that he is nothing to no one, he is something very wonderful to her and as she draws she can feel it being pressed down into the pencil, the ink, the framework of it all making one message.

He catches her by surprise one night, she has lost track of the time and he's suddenly there, silent and looking over her shoulder, sitting right next to her. That damned grin on his face. She gasps and tries to hide it, but he has already seen. She is suddenly glad for the mask because having to see what was in his eyes instead of simply feeling it somehow would make her own betrayal much more devastating.

He doesn't say anything, just gently tugs the almost-finished art from her hands (always gently, always, as if she's the most precious thing he will ever hold again). His mask stays tilted towards it for what seems like forever (how she would relish the chance to have forever with him). The absurdity of their affair has never been a problem and now she holds her breath and wonders how she could ever have thought they were close to any kind of normalcy.

There is no indication of his reaction, his hands don't shake, his fingers don't suddenly grip the paper, leaving little dents on its tender edges. (She never sees him react, never, the closest she ever gets is the way the light bends around him as he arches, skin shining with a dull sheen of sweat.) She finds enough time to briefly hope that he won't realize who the subject matter is; as the silence stretches she tries to imagine how he must see it (see it, see everything through eyes that aren't there, ghost eyes).

(There is a man, a man tall and proud, even in this position you can see it. He wears it like a cloak, his pride wrapped around him almost protectively, shucked off at will. He lies like a cat on the bed (if she had to compare him to any animal it would be a cat, dignified, graceful and sleek while always having the potential to be as pissy as hell.), back half propped up on pillows. Seemingly relaxed you have to look again to see the tension in him, barely visible. He's in a state of alertness, a state that fits him like a second skin, never changing. (Evey has seen it gone herself just once, once when he lay sleeping in her arms after getting hurt on something that he never explained. Calm as a baby she never wanted to let go.) He wears no clothes, a sheet draped across his lap for modesty, twisting around his thighs, sliding off them around the middle (how she had blushed when it came to drawing that, how glad she had been when the added sheet made everything more tasteful). He's all muscle, but it's hard to define anything on him for he's covered with shadow as well. Light and dark, playing, teasing, hiding what is necessary to be seen, showing enough so that is seems like you just _need_ more (Like him, just like him with his words and his touches that make her shiver.) A book lies by his side, a rose keeping his page, the blossom dark, deep red. A thorn seems to have pricked his finger, the drop of blood the only indication that he's not some beautiful, heartbreaking illusion. (It's the only speck of colour on the picture, his blood and his (their) rose. The rest a sea of blacks, whites and greys. Especially greys.) The shadows hide his face, but you can _feel_ him looking at you. Hollow eyes staring at you with no hint of shame or modesty, full of fire, burning with fervour and life.)

(And somewhere, if you look closely, you will see love. As passionate as anything.)

He puts it down, dropping the paper into her lap and she wishes he had put it in her hands. That he would have given her the excuse to brush against his fingers. (He does it on purpose, knowing that she does it on purpose as well.) She has grown accustomed to gauging his feelings through his body language, the angle of his mask, the set of his shoulders, the space between his feet. But now he stands still, frozen. She wants to run away but she can't do it. Not again.

She looks at him, stares into the holes of his mask and knows that the only determination on her face is the decision to stay. She will not move, not back down unless he does. (She realizes it's pointless to play staring-contest with a mask but they have never been too logical.)

He blinks.

She asks him what he sees in her art, the same as she does all the others.

"A man with something to hide, who cannot give all that he should." She bites her lip to keep from saying something stupid and it is only knowing that she too cannot betray him so completely that keeps her from ripping off that damned mask and kissing him to make it all better. (She wishes she could, she knows that he wishes she could too.)

"For once you're wrong. What I mean to draw, what I see is a man who will not hide a thing if asked, who is giving everything he can." Oh that poor stupid, wonderful, confident, insecure man. "But do you know what I see the most? Beauty. Radiating off every single line."

And the world is full of light as suddenly, he sees it too.


End file.
